Holiday Backfire
by Purpleluva01
Summary: In honor of today's double holiday!


_**Holiday Backfire**_

 _ **By**_

 _ **Reptilian-Angel**_

* * *

 **ME: Hello everybody! First of all, Happy Easter AND April Fool's Days! Wow, two holidays on the same day in, what, several years? How cool is that?**

 **That being said, I just had to write something for the occasion! So instead of rambling incessantly for god knows how long, I'll just post this and hope for some reviews and/or comments since I'm the hopelessly hopeful person that I am.**

 **I own nothing, please enjoy!**

* * *

Igrath Winters was not happy.

He was not happy at all. Not one little bit. And Scinter, shadowing him as per usual, wasn't any better.

His face, stony and firm, made that as clear as day. Shadows played with his already impressive form, his powerful lines highlighted with a menace as the afternoon light peaked through just enough to seemingly enhance his size, already seen as outright intimidating to the two condemned DreamKeepers before him.

Even though he had yet to raise one claw, both had looked like they had gone through hell. A boy and a girl, to each their own scars and their own hand in bringing about the trouble they were in.

Namah's appearance was similar to the end results of a war being fought inside of a kitchen or a crafts store. Her trench-coat was torn and ripped asunder, one sleeve barely holding on by a couple of threads, the belt missing along with a few loops and the rest littered by splashes of what appeared to be paint, glitter and condiments like ketchup and chocolate sauce. Her horns were tied with a tangled mess of ribbons and tape, stuck to it were bits of paper, confetti and tiny feathers, a few sticking to the tip of her blue-tipped tail and her haphazardly messy pink quaff, a quarter and a half of it either cut abruptly at the ends or dipped in outlandishly bright colors of purple, orange, green and yellow. Her face was graffiti-ed with loud, thick red paste, the scent akin to tomatoes and sprinkled with flecks of onions and eggshells. Regardless to having a church gathering worthy buffet thrown on her, her face was calm with pride, if not a little nervous under his hard stare.

Mace, however, looked the worse out of the two, looking much more like he had come straight out a high school chemical lab and tumbled through a miniature Talocan mine field for good measure. His fur was fluffed with soot and unidentifiable white powder, sticking up like needles as static crackled through each strand, his right eye blackened and swelled up like a peach, his bright blue iris barely visible and his three thick locks of hair were stiffened and slicked with something smelly to the point where they looked close to the beginnings of a crude, amateur Mohawk. Out of one ear something large and fuzzy was jammed inside, the item looking like one half of an earmuff, while the others tip was blackened and burned, a small trail of smoke airing from it that was freshly made, how was anyone's guess. His coat was in tatters, unlike hers it hung on like ragged drapes, slathered in nearly every color of the rainbow, slices of it touching the ground and gathered at his feet, one foot colored hot pink and glittering and the other trapped in a medium-sized paint bucket dented and punctured like it had a head on collision with a hammer. He looked far more apprehensive of the current predicament he stood knee-dip in, anxiously shifting from foot to bucket, clanking softly.

The personal damage these two had endured would have warranted just a simple talking to, had it not been for the damage done to the interior of Troika HQ as well. As well as a few members.

The weapons rack were laden with innumerable amounts of flypaper strips, devilishly criss-crossed around almost every corner, shelf and individual rifle and, for two sorry Dreamkeepers caught in the middle, sticking with a horrendously tight grip. Their vicious, half muffled swears worsened the more they struggled, the racks themselves shaking from their efforts to escape and jolting for every patch of fur and some skin ripped away.

The barracks barely looked recognizable, with mattresses lay any which way, some ontop of each other some left abandoned on the ground; the bed frames themselves were still in one piece, literally and figuratively, seeing as they had somehow been stacked and welded together into something cross between a windmill and a merry-go-round. Whatever pillows and blankets remained were thrown and tossed asunder over it, some stuck in place no matter how hard whichever volunteered Troika pulled. Save for Whip, who had taken it to a makeshift obstacle course, twirling and swiveling through each loop merrily in spite of Kalei's exasperated glares.

The mess hall and lounge were hit worst of all. And most weirdly of all. The two small areas were buried under copious amounts of glop, bubbling and thick and sticky as tar, swallowing benches and tables alike with the most obnoxious, loudest and garish shade of yellow ever seen. Only the sofa was seen, sunk halfway into the matter and stained by the dye turning the cushions a sickly dark green that nearly rivaled Lilith's, the girl in question doing her best to help Bast and two other Troika members as they tugged and yanked fruitlessly at it.

The minimum left inside didn't get off Scot-free. There was a pillar of smoke rising from the kitchen, the repetitive fire alarm ringing to ear bleeding tones even as Indi and Digo bombarded the source with industrial strength fire extinguishers. Not too far from that, a couple of stray Kerricks trotted around the melee confused only to gallop away from Woods, Damon and Bill as they did their best to herd them out, one nibbling casually on Bill's trademark hat. And the topper, streaks and waves of every color imaginable and some not so much and glittering from the afternoon sun peaking through the patch of torn fabric in the ceiling canopy overhead.

Igrath's expression soured just as badly as Scinter's as he hissed dangerously.

They disagreed on a great deal of things on daily basis. But on this, they both could agree on one thing at this moment.

That this would be the last damn time that he and Scinter would leave Nainso alone in watching HQ. If the sharply-dressed cat himself being trapped in the glop as well by his heel and being pulled at vigorously by Karo, Rumour and a few others despite yowling protests was any indication. (" _What are you doing?! OW, Spirits, please, be CAREFUL!"_ )

Igrath took in a deep, angry breath, let it out slowly and frowned squarely at the accused juveniles. "So, what have we learned here today?"

His niece and her friend looked at each other for three brief moments of silence. Namah broke it off with a roll of her eyes and the silence with a small groan.

"That there is a magnificent difference between fun and murder on Seeker's Day."

 _ **Fin.**_


End file.
